Wild Wild West The Night of the Cursed Flour

The Night of the Cursed Flour

Artemus Gordon tapped his pencil on the desk top as he gazed out the window. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-

"Artie"

The tapping continued.

"Artie."

Still, the tapping.

"ARTIE!"

Artemus, still tapping, looked up to see James West glaring at him fromacross the desk.

"Artie, do you mind?"

"What?"

"The tapping?"

"Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming."

"Daydreaming, huh? Something interesting?" Jim smiled. "Beautiful women? A new gadget? Some outlandish-"

"Pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Jim continued to stare at his friend. "You've been pounding on the desk with that pencil and staring out the window dreaming of pancakes?"

"I'd hardly call it pounding, James, but I've been thinking about those pancakes I made yesterday. I think I can do better."

Jim sighed. He knew his partner was always thinking of ways to upgrade weaponry or some chemical concoction to keep his inventive mind busy, but pancakes? He didn't want to ask what Artie had in mind. It usually involved long, overly technical discourses on some topic only his friend would find interesting, and Jim was already elbow deep in writing the report of their last assignment. He really didn't need another mind numbing experience like this was bound to be, but what the hell?

"What are you talking about? And please keep it short, please?"

"No problem there, my friend. I think I can make them fluffier and a tad tastier." He smiled.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And that's it? Let's face it, Artie, you aren't known for such short explanations. You can't help it. I think it's all that showboating you did."

"I am not giving you the details of my great idea, James, my boy, because shortly you will be begging me for the recipe as your taste buds will have been tempted with few things so incredibly delicious in your pedestrian culinary experience."

"The really scary part is that I'm so bored right now, I'd probably find a new recipe for flapjacks to be interesting." He leaned back in his chair.

Artie leaned forward in his chair. "Flapjacks, Jim? Really?

That you would even suggest that my new gourmet creation could be on the same level as the lowly flapjack insults me!" He slammed his pencil down and stood up. "I believe I'm off to town to find some finely sifted flour, with a minimum of bugs."

"You already have me drooling, but you forget! We have a report to finish."

Artie reached for his jacket. "I'm sorry my friend, but as of this moment, YOU have a report to finish and I have a pancake to prepare. I can't tell you how badly I feel leaving you to write this one lousy report when I have finished the last six." He put on his hat and slid it over his eyes. "Think of it as on the job training." He turned to head to the stable car. "That VIP we're waiting for won't be here for a couple more days, correct?"

"Correct. Why? Are you going to be gone for a couple days, just to get flour?"

"One never knows, my friend," Artie smiled as he glided past Jim into the galley. "One just never knows."

Jim stayed at the desk just long enough to see his friend ride off in the direction of town, then he tossed the pencil down and headed for the couch. "Since it's going to be a lot quieter around here for awhile, I think, since Artie is working on a better pancake, I'll just have to work on a better nap." He was asleep in moments.

Artie rode slowly in to town, his horse maintaining an easy, unhurried pace. The late morning air was slightly cold, and the sky looked like it might decide to rain, but not anytime soon. He wanted to feel guilty about leaving all that paperwork for Jim to finish alone, but he just couldn't muster much sympathy.

Artie passed the small sign with the town name, Wilkerson's Fields, which he thought was a pretty big name for a town with ten wooden buildings at the most. There was a large saloon, of course, a small church and a few stores. It had probably sprung up to support the cattle ranches that surrounded it. Local cowboys hit the bar on Saturdays, and the few families in the area went to the small church on Sundays. Artie was surprised to see a Chinese restaurant as he rode into town, but he never knew what he'd find in these sleepy, little towns.

Spotting a mercantile in the center of town, Artie planned to get his five pounds of flour, if it was in stock, and head on down to the saloon to drink in a little local color, or at least a cold beer. He stopped in front of the store, tied the reins down and slapped his horse on the rump affectionately as he headed inside. He thought he'd see if there was an apple or two for his mount.

Inside, when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Artie looked around to see a wall of tools and other ranching supplies, bolts of different colored cloths, small barrels with dry oatmeal, crackers, some dried fruit, but no fresh apples. He saw a few small carrots lying on the counter with a pint basket of tomatoes, in front of a man in an apron who was watching him with some interest. The man was medium build, with brown hair that was combed over to the left.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, pulling up one suspender that had fallen down his left arm. He wiped his hands on his less than spotless apron. "We've got all the basics."

""Actually, I just needed some flour." Artie picked up a couple carrots. They were a little droopy, but not too soft for the horse. "And a couple of these if they aren't too old."

"Fresh as you'll get around here, mister." He picked up a couple of the carrots. "How much flour did ya want - a ½ barrel?"

"No, not that much. I think five pounds is all I can carry."

"How about some coffee beans? Maybe some canned goods?"

"Sorry to disappoint you Mr. -ah?"

"Maxwell. Chester Maxwell."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Maxwell. Just the flour, and a couple of carrots, please."

Mr. Maxwell sighed. "I see I'm not gonna make my fortune off of you."

Artie smiled and picked up the sad little carrots and headed outside. "If you could just measure out the flour, I'll take these outside for my horse."

Maxwell mumbled something but went to fill Artie's order. The horse didn't seem repulsed by the carrots and quickly chomped them down. Artie petted her neck and looked around the streets. Two or three people were out and about.

"Not much going on here, girl. I think those carrots are going to be the high point of your day. I hope mine is a little more interesting."

Back in the store, Mr. Maxwell had the small burlap bag of flour sitting next to a cashbox.

"That'll be 21 cents for the flour and carrots." Artie handed him the coins. "You sure you don't need any sugar or tobacco - maybe some ammunition?"

"Thanks, but I think this will -"

"DON'T NOBODY MOVE!"

Artie turned slowly, only to face an angry, red haired boy with freckles who looked to be barely 15 years old. He was holding a really big pistol, pointed right at Artie.

"BILLY WILLY!" Maxwell shouted. "I've told you to stop comin' in here and askin' for money 'cause I ain't about to give you any! I told you the last time you tried this, I was gonna tell Jeff Evans!"

Artie turned to Maxwell. "The last time? He's done this before?"

"SHUT UP!" Billy yelled. "GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY! YOU TOO, MISTER!"

"Yeah, this fool comes in every couple a months and acts stupid like this, and every time I have to kick him out! Billy, you ain't getting what little money I got here. NOW GET OUT!"

Artie turned back to the boy. He could see the gun was cocked and loaded. "Now, no need to get worked up here, boy," he said. "Let's just keep calm."

Billy's face turned a deeper shade of red. "Don't call me 'BOY'! I got a gun, ya know, and I ain't afraid to use it!" Tired of hearing the English language treated so badly, Artie made a quick step sideways into the boy, grabbing his wrist and pulling the gun past him, just as it went off. A huge white cloud blew over the three men, dusting them all with a thick coat of flour. Artie twisted the boys arm behind him and pulled the gun out of his hand.

"NOW LOOK WHAT YOU'VE GONE AND DONE, BILLY!" shouted Maxwell, sneezing. "NOW I HAVE TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS! YOU IDIOT!"

"LET GO OF ME, MISTER! I'LL KILL YOU." Billy twisted and tried to pull away.

"Not today, boy," Artie shook his head. He slid the boy's gun into his waistband. "And you shouldn't be playing with guns, son."

"DON'T CALL ME 'SON'! I AIN'T YOUR SON!"

"That's a blessing," Artie said, pulling back harder on Billy's arm. "If you don't stop fighting me, I'll have to break your arm." To make his point, he pulled even harder on the boy's arm, making him yelp. "Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, yeah, mister. Don't bust my arm!" Billy calmed down, although he kept glaring at Artie, who was wiping flour off of his face.

Artie looked over at Maxwell, who was also covered in flour and back at Billy, whose freckles were lost under a layer of flour. He reached over and picked up the remains of his flour bag.

"Son, you shot my bag of flour. You're going to have to buy me a new one."

"If I had any money, Mr. Smart Britches, would I be trying to hold up this dump?"

"He's got a point," Artie said to Maxwell, who did not find the humor in his remark. "What do you want me to do with this outlaw?"

"I told him the next time he pulled this plot I was gonna call Jeff Evans - he's our elected constable - and see him rot in jail," Maxwell growled. "Take him to Jeff! Dang! Look at this mess!"

"Where is the constable?" Artie asked.

"Out the front and 6 doors down on the left. It's also the smithy."

Artie dropped the remains of his flour. "Could I get another bag of flour, Mr. Maxwell?"

"Sure. That'll be another 18 cents."

Artie stared at the merchant. "You're charging me for another bag of flour. Mr. Maxwell, I just saved your precious cash box. I might just have saved your life."

Maxwell sniffed. "That don't pay for my flour, now does it?"

Artie shook his head in disbelief. "Fine. Give me another five pounds, and here's your 18 cents." Still holding on to Billy, Artie picked up the new bag and headed out the door. "I'll be sure to tell my friends about this place."

Outside, Artie nudged the boy to the left.

"Let's go, boy," Artie sighed.

"Don't call me 'BOY'!" the would be outlaw shouted.

Artie stopped, one hand on the boy, the other cradling the second bag of flour. "FINE!" he replied. "What IS your name again?"

"It's Billy Willy, mister. You won't be forgettin' it again, specially when my brothers Billy come looking for you for laying your dirty hands on me."

"You mean your brother, Billy, right?"

"No, you idjit, I said my brothers Billy. Are you so old you're hard a hearin'?"

"I'm starting to feel that way, yes. So, you're telling me you have brothers and they're all named 'Billy'?"

"That's right! I got three older brothers, and my pa named 'em all 'Billy'."

Artie stopped walking. "So you're telling me your father . . ."

"William Willy."

Artie stared at Billy.

"Your father, Willie Willy, had four sons, and he named them ALL, Billy Willy?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "Now wouldn't that just be stupid! We're all named Billy Willy, after our grandpa, but we got different middle names. That was my ma's idea, sose we wouldn't get confused as to which one she was hollerin' for."

"Your mother sounds like a very intelligent woman."

"And so she is!"

"I'm sure she is." Artie shook his head. "Now I hate to ask this but what middle names were you given?"

"Well, that just ain't any of your bizness, is it now, Mr. Nosey Britches?" Billy sneered.

"Well, you've got me there, bo - ah, Billy. Let's just move along."

As they walked down the street, they passed a pretty, young woman on the sidewalk. Artie pulled his prisoner to the side so that she could pass. Cradling the new sack of flour in his arm that held Billy, the flour covered agent tipped his hat to the lady, and flour fell lightly from the brim. The woman suppressed a giggle and went on her way.

Continuing down the street, leaving light flour trails, they made it to the entrance to a small barn that bore a nicely carved sign that read "Evans Blacksmith and Livery". Still holding on to Billy, Artie pushed him through the door and stepped in behind him. Except for a fidgeting horse tied up near a burning forge, the barn seemed deserted.

"Looks like no one's home," Artie said.

"Well, ain't you just the ah, the ah …"

"What? Are you running out of 'britches' names, Billy?" Artie shook his head. "I'm deeply disappointed." He set the boy down on a bench by a stall. "Now, if you try to run off, Mr. Willy, not only will I 'bust' your arm, but I'll break your leg in three places, and flatten your nose just for fun. Do you understand?"

Billy was smart enough to know this man meant what he said, and nodded sullenly. Artie released his arm and looked around again.

"HELLO! MR. EVANS!" he shouted.

A moment later, the back door to the barn opened and a man stepped through, finishing the last bite or two of a sandwich. He was a small man, barely 5' tall, with a large patch of baldness and a large handlebar mustache. He wore a blue denim shirt and jeans under a large leather apron.

"Mr. Evans?" Artie asked. He found it hard to believe that this small man was in charge of keeping the peace in this town.

"That's me," he replied with a grin. "Can I help you, sir?" He extended his hand to Artie, and as they shook hands he caught sight of Billy, slumped on the bench. "I see you probably aren't bringing me good news, Mr. . . .?"

"Gordon. Artemus Gordon, and no, I'm sorry to say this young man tried to hold up the mercantile, with this pistol." He took the gun from his waistband and handed it to the constable. "An innocent bag of flour was shot during the hold up."

Evans smiled. "That explains all the white powder you two are wearing. Maxwell fit to be tied, I suppose?" He looked at the gun, and then at the boy.

"Billy, Billy, Billy - boy, when are you going to stop this nonsense?"

Billy shrugged, staring at the floor.

"You know I'm going to have to keep you here until I can send for your pa? And he is not going to be too happy with you."

This made Billy look up, startled. "Geez, Mr. Evans, cain't you just keep this twixt you and me? I mean, nobody got hurt, and I didn't get no money."

Evans shook his head. "Sorry, boy, but this has got to stop. You swore to me last time that you'd learned your lesson after I made you muck out these stalls for a month, and apologize to Mr. Maxwell. Seems like your word doesn't mean a thing."

Billy hung his head and for a minute Artie thought the boy might burst into tears.

"Now, you're still going to muck out the stalls for two months, but that is nothing compared to what your pa may do to you. Then, if you still don't stop, I'll be forced to call on the U.S. marshal to take you. Look at me, boy.!"

Billy raised his head, his flour whitened face even whiter.

"Listen to me, Billy," Evans said firmly,"and listen good. What you're doing is criminal! You may think it's fun and games, and no one's been hurt yet, but it's just plain wrong! It won't be tolerated anymore as a boyish prank. Do you hear me?"

Billy nodded.

"I said, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do."

Evans stared at the boy, for several moments. Then he reached over and grabbed a shovel leaning against the wall next to the forge. "Here, get started."

Billy stood up quickly and took the shovel, accidently banging it on the side of the stone forge. Startled, the horse by the forge stepped back and then threw her rump sideways, knocking Artie forward and into Billy, both of them falling hard, sprawled on the floor of the barn.

"Hey, hey, girl!" Evans said quietly, grabbing her reins and calming her. "Take it easy." He looked over at the two on the floor. "You two alright?"

Artie sat up, still clutching the bag of flour in his arm. "I'm fine and I'm relieved to see this flour bag in one piece. How about you, Billy?"

"I'm OK." He stood up, brushed off his pants, and headed towards the first stall.

Evans reached down and helped Artie up. Artie was amazed at the strength in the small man's arm. "Rachel is a good horse, just alittle jumpy."

"Thanks. I'm sure she meant no harm." He reached over to pat her neck. "She's a handsome animal."

Rachel tossed her head and whipped her neck around. With lightening speed, she grabbed Artie's bag of flour and shook her head back and forth, flour flying everywhere, covering Artie, Evans and the immediate area around her. Then, when Artie tried to snatch the bag from her teeth, she neatly tossed it in the smoldering forge.

Artie stood in shock, covered in more flour. It had all happened in a flash. The only sound in the barn was Evans coughing on the flour that had settled on him, and the stomping of Rachel's hooves. She seemed eager to find something else to play with. Billy stood by unscathed, choking back a grin.

Artie shook his head, more flour falling from his hat. He looked over at Evans, who was partially covered with flour, his long brown mustache peppered with white and a small patch of flour settling on his bald pate. Flour continued to float down like fine snow all around them. Rachel snickered loudly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that horse was laughing at us."

Evans grinned through the flour. "I'm sure she is! I'm very sure she is!" He looked around the barn. "Well, looks like Billy's got his work cut out for him cleaning up this mess."

Billy's grin froze, and then disappeared.

"I don't know about you, Mr. Gordon, but I could use a beer about now," Evans said. "I'll buy the first round if you're interested."

"I'm always ready for a beer, my good man. I just need to stop and make Maxwell's day by getting a third bag of flour."

He brushed some of the flour off his sleeves as Evans took off his apron and hung it by the forge.

"Take care of the place, Billy," he said. "And don't let me down, boy!"

"No, sir. I won't let ya down." Billy began work on the first stall.

"You did a good job with Billy," Artie said as he and Evans walked to the mercantile. "I can see why people trust you to keep the peace here."

"Well, there's not much to it. This town has very little except piles of peace. The only time I'm really needed is if a cowboy gets drunk on a Saturday and gets into trouble. Then I just put him in a hopefully fresh stall and let him sleep it off. So far, Billy's been our worst outlaw."

"I hope he heeds your warning."

"He's a good kid - all the Billys are. They come from good people."

"Don't you find that odd, Evans, that all the boys are named Billy Willy?"

Evans smiled. "It is different, but they all have middle names to set them apart. But if you meet anymore of them, you should know they're a bit sensitive about the name thing."

"Hopefully, I've had all the Willys I can take for a day. Ah, here we are."

"Don't tell me," Maxwell said, sizing up the two men covered in flour. "You need another bag of flour."

"That would seem to be the case," Artie said.

"Seems I will be making some money off ya today - CAREFUL - I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't get flour all over. I just swept up the last of the mess from your first bag."

"Sorry."

"Jeff, did you take care of that damned kid?"

"I don't think he'll bother you again, Maxwell," Evans replied. "But if he does, I told him I'd call in the Marshal."

"Better not be another time," Maxwell muttered as he filled another bag for Artie. "Hey, Mister, you want me to have another bag ready for ya when ya come back?"

"Maxwell, my good merchant," Artie smiled, "this will definitely be the LAST time. Not that I haven't enjoyed the time we've spent together."

"Pleasure's been all mine," Maxwell smiled, taking Artie's money.

A short time later, Artie and Evans were leaning against the board and four barrels that made up the local bar. Artie's third bag of flour sat on the bar by his elbow. Six or seven tables with various chairs were scattered about the room. Spittoons were at each end of the bar, and a picture of a nearly naked lady hung behind it. A large wagon wheel shaped chandelier hung over the bar, with 8 unlit lamps hanging from the spokes.

An old gray cat lay on an even older rag rug at the far end of the bar, fast asleep.

Evans pointed at the cat with his beer mug. "That's Melvin. He's been around here for years - must be 15 years old. He used to keep the town pretty clean from mice, but mostly he just sleeps all day now. Can't say that I blame him."

"He looks pretty comfortable. I left my partner back on our train, supposedly finishing a report, but I'd bet he's doing exactly as that tom cat is."

"Train?! You OWN a train?"

"No, I work for the government. It's Uncle Sam's."

"Still - what do you do to get to use the train?"

"We're Federal Agents for the Secret Service. We travel a lot."

"Sounds exciting - got any good stories?" Evans asked. "If they aren't secret, that is."

Artie smiled. "There are a few exciting ones, but there are a lot of boring ones, like picking up politicians or delivering papers."

"How do you rate your run in with Billy?"

"I'd have to put it in the pretty damn interesting file!" Artie laughed.

Suddenly the sound of running boots on the wooden sidewalk could be heard, and the swinging door to the saloon flew open. Three men all burst in, standing by the door until their eyes could adjust to the darkened room. Artie could see they were all armed and they did not look too happy. Artie was not too happy either to see that the smallest was around 6 feet tall and almost as muscular as the tallest, who looked to be two or three inches taller. All three looked vaguely familiar to him.

"Where's the skunk what tried to break my brother's arm!?!" shouted the biggest one.

Artie was sure he didn't like the sound of that.

"What do you think you're doing, Billy?" Evans said slamming his mug down. "You're getting all excited about nothing."

"Billy?" Artie set his mug down. "You mean these are all Billy's brothers?"

"That's right, Mr. Yella britches," Billy number 3 replied.

Artie looked at Evans. "What is it with this family and britches?"

"Billy Edgar," Evans continued, "you don't want to be starting anything here. Now nobody broke Billy's arm and he was asking for trouble anyway. He tried to rob Maxwell again!"

"I know that, Jeff, but it don't seem right that this stranger went and beat him up."

"Son, I never put a bruise on your brother," Artie said, " although you probably couldn't tell under all that flour."

"Boys," Evans stated firmly, "there will be no trouble here today. Do you understand me, Billy Edgar? Billy Allen?"

"Wait," Artie interrupted. "Let me guess. Billy number 3 is Billy Poe!"

"You got a problem with that, Mr. Fancy britches?" snarled Billy Poe.

"The name is Artemus Gordon, boys, and no, I don't have a problem with your names. In fact, I think they are quite inspired. I take it your pa is a Poe fan?"

The three boys seemed to be taken aback. "So he is," said Billy Edgar. "And he's been reading us Mr. Poe's stories since we was kids. We're proud to share his name." The other two nodded.

"I don't blame you. He's one of my favorite authors. It would be my honor to buy you all a round of beers, if you'd let me."

The three exchanged looks that clearly showed that concern for their brother was definitely trumped by free beer.

"Well, I don't think we'd say no to your offer, Mr. Gordon. We'd be glad to drink a beer with you."

Evans shot Artie a sly grin as the three boys gathered at the bar. He slapped the agent on the back. "Good move, Gordon."

Artie moved, with his sack of flour, a little further down the bar to make room for the three Willys. He motioned to the bartender to set up the drinks. "I can see how you get your middle names from Poe," he said, "but doesn't that leave your younger brother out of the Poe family tradition?"

"Naw, Pa named him Billy Pit," Billy Edgar explained. "After his favorite story."

" 'The Pit and the Pendulum'. Good choice. I guess he's lucky your Pa didn't name him 'Lenore'."

Billy Edgar took a deep swallow of beer and set his mug down. "Now that would be kinda stupid, now wouldn't it? Naming his son 'Billy Lenore'?"

"You're right, of course. That would be stupid."

"Besides, that's my sister's name."

"You have a sister 'Lenore'?"

"No, Billie Lenore." He shook his head. "You ain't caught on to our family namin's yet, Mister? No offense, but you act alittle slow."

"Some days I do, Billy Edgar, and I think this is -

Artie was interrupted when Melvin the cat sprang to his feet while letting out the most terrified howl, and raced across the bar, just missing Artie's bag of flour on his way out the front door. Startled, all five men jumped back as Melvin sped by, a variety of curses followed him out.

Artie shook his head. "What the hell -" But he was interrupted again as a low rumble was heard and the floor of the bar began to roll. Dirt and sand fell from the ceiling, and chairs began to fall over.

"EARTHQUAKE!" screamed Billy Allen. The three brothers, grabbing their beer mugs, dove under the nearest table, Artie and Evans took another. A couple boards fell from the ceiling and the glasses behind the bar tinkled like chimes as the chandelier swayed back and forth.

Twenty seconds later, the trembling stopped. For a few moments, no one moved.

"Is that it?" breathed Billy Poe.

Evans slowly climbed out from beneath the table. Artie followed, disgusted to find a thin layer of dust from the rafters covering his already flour encrusted clothes. "I see they haven't dusted in here for awhile."

Evans looked around, brushing dust off of his sleeves. "It doesn't look like much damage."

The three Willy boys slowly came out from their shelter. "That wasn't too bad," said Billy Poe. He checked his mug. "Didn't even spill a drop of beer."

"My bag of flour seems intact, too," Artie said with relief. "That could have been a disaster." As soon as he spoke, the rope holding up the chandelier snapped and the heavy wagon wheel fell into the bar, smashing two beer mugs, several chimneys on the lanterns and one bag of flour.

The crash made everyone jump back. Flour mixed with the floating dust and began to add another layer of white on Artie. He stared blankly at the remains of his bag of flour.

Billy Edgar chugged down the last of his beer. "Damned unlucky about your flour, Mister." He held up his empty mug. "You still buyin'?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jim was awakened from his nap by the tremor, but when it was over there appeared to be no damage to the train. When he heard Artie and his horse coming back, he hurried behind the desk and picked up a pencil, trying to look like he had been working on the report. A few minutes later, he looked up as Artie entered from the galley. Jim stifled a chuckle to see his friend covered from hat to boots with some kind of white powder and a thin layer of dirt. There was no smile on his face.

"If you're trying on a new disguise, Artie, it's not quite working."

Artie smiled thinly at his friend. "Funny, Jim. You're a funny, funny man." He took off his hat, causing another trickling down of flour. "I am going to take a bath, change into less flour encrusted clothes and make some dinner."

"Pancakes?"

Artie glared at his partner. "I did not know until just this minute, James, just how cruel and downright obnoxious you really are." He turned to leave the room. "And don't think I don't know that you probably slept all afternoon on that couch instead of finishing that report. As usual, you think I'm going to finish that long and dull report for you because you think it drives me crazy when you procrastinate on these writing jobs, which it does, but that's beside the point, that you need to learn a little consideration when -

"Artie," Jim interrupted. "How about a brandy?"

Artie sighed, dropping onto the couch, causing a small cloud of flour.

"Make it a big one."


End file.

Wild Wild West, Humor, Western